Dream Catch Me
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: His eyes darken with lust as he takes her in – heaving chest, disheveled curls, trembling legs. She's so beautiful. “God, I love you,” he chokes out, and this time there’s no counting, only truth. Tag to Season 2 Finale. CB, as always.


**A/N: So I started writing this after the Season 2 finale, and it's **_**finally**_** finished. This is basically an extension of the very last scene of the episode, because honestly, I was frustrated that there wasn't any sex ;)**

**Thanks for reading! Enjoy :)**

Dream Catch Me

_Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.  
- Ardele by Jean Anouilh_

It's hurried and it's passionate once they climb into the infamous limo. Blair's green Dior peacoat is shrugged off her shoulders as soon as her yellow heels slide across the seats, and she's tugging on the lapels of Chuck's jacket as he swings the door shut behind them. He smiles against her lips, and she giggles giddily.

"Drive," he grunts out, this to the driver. The shade is up already, thankfully, and the limo roars to life. He turns his attention back to Blair, as he always does.

"I love you," he murmurs – yet again – and she melts into his embrace. It's the twelfth time he's said those precious words. (He's the one counting).

She smiles happily and whispers the words back without hesitating. She has waited so long to hear him profess his love for her, and she can't hold her adoration in any longer.

Maybe she never could.

He's kissing down the skin dipping to her cleavage before she musters the strength – or the desire – to speak again. She braces her hands on his broad shoulders, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her purple La Perla bra-clad chest, and gazes at him with dark, lustful eyes. "Chuck," she mutters, her eyelids fluttering as she attempts to thrust herself closer still to his achingly contoured body.

"Blair," he breathes, confusion tingeing his voice. He's wearing only a light blue dress shirt now, and she runs her fingers along the curve of his collar. A small smile plays at the corner of her lips.

"This is perfect," she explains softly. She's not bashful about it; she holds his gaze until she's positive she'll faint.

He nods, and his fingers still below the straps of her bra. He grasps her hips cautiously and smiles. "Yes, Waldorf." His voice is rueful, familiar, but tinged with joy. This is actually happening. Chuck and Blair, making it work. (He marvels at the thought).

Blair grins at the undisguised wonder in his eyes and reaches for his lips. He needs no prompting, and he pushes her against the limo seats with the fervor she has missed so much.

Her deft fingers quickly and certainly undo the buttons encasing his strong body, and suddenly she has to stifle a gasp. It's been so long since he last took her, and the sight of the muscles rippling in his built arms is almost too much to bear. He's beautiful, he really is. His dark hair is mussed and his eyes are slightly glazed and his chest is hovering over her and oh, oh, _oh_!

A bright red blush floods her cheeks, and Chuck laughs a little. "I'd forgotten that your breasts blush."

He smiles down at her, a teasing gleam flitting through his eyes. "Don't," she warns, but it's half-hearted and he knows it. She likes that he notices these small details. Nate never did.

Chuck lets his hand trail down to the gold lame skirt perched on her hips, relishing the slight shiver that courses through her. She arches her back to allow him easier access, and he drags the fabric down the length of her legs. She shakes a little from the sudden draft and closes her eyes to stem the wave of blood throbbing in her groin.

_Damn_ she needs him.

"Chuck," she manages to grit out, clenching her fists as his hands trace the contours of her thigh. He's not even kissing her, but already she's so far gone.

"Yes?" She can hear the grin in his voice.

"I need you." They're painful words to utter, of course, but she loves him and she wants him and she just needs to feel him inside her. "Now," she tacks on, opening her eyes.

He grins.

He's shaking with need, too, but fast sex is something he does with whores, not with the beautiful, tantalizingly _naked_ woman before him. She's different, and she always has been. He wants to ravish her; he wants to kiss every inch of her pillowy, luxuriously soft skin and tangle his fingers in her tumbling chocolate curls and slip his tongue between those sinfully plump lips…

He's now thinking deliciously dirty thoughts about her.

"Antsy, are we?" he whispers gently, seriously, a chuckle coloring his voice.

She shakes her head vehemently and shoots him the trademark Waldorf glare. But her cheeks are flushed. "It's been a year," she reminds him.

He thinks for a moment. She's clad in only a cleverly cut bra, tights and an incredibly revealing thong (he can see it through her stockings), and he's still wearing an undershirt and trousers. Now is definitely the time to take off some clothes.

"You're right," he murmurs. He pulls her trembling body closer still and crashes his lips to hers, devouring her eagerly as she writhes beneath him. She twines one hand around his neck and uses the other to tear his undershirt off his body – he thinks he hears the fabric rip. His lips curve upward as he resists the urge to smile at how quickly she's managed to undress him.

"You're still wearing pants," she murmurs ruefully, slight instistence marring the lightness of the words.

He nods, and her fingers curl around his belt buckle. She undoes the constraining strap with ease, and he eagerly pulls his pants away from his body. He quickly, certainly tugs her opaque tights down the length of her legs. (He marvels at the subtle sheen). They are both only in their underwear now.

His eyes darken with lust as he takes her in – heaving chest, disheveled curls, trembling legs. She's so beautiful. "God, I love you," he chokes out, and this time there's no counting, only truth.

She nods, dumbstruck into silence. She's not sure she even remembers what it feels like to not be in love with Chuck Bass.

He slides her gently across the seats until her body is stretched along the length of the leather, and he hovers over her confidently. His gaze is thoughtful, focused, as he reaches his hand around and quickly unclasps her bra.

She almost crosses her arms over her chest. The last time she had sex was with Carter – she and Nate never actually did it again – and that's not really a memory she wants to revisit. And with everything going on concerning her non-acceptance to Yale and her failed relationships and all that, she hasn't really been eating. Her breasts have shrunk a little, and she's self-conscious again.

As always.

But Chuck lowers his mouth to one breast, rolling his tongue over the nipple, and murmurs reverently, "Beautiful." It's a word he often uses in relation to her.

She shivers at the touch, and her eyes are clouded over as she gently tugs on his hair, pulling his face back up to meet hers. She consumes his lips in a searing kiss that leaves him breathless – a frequent occurrence when it comes to her – and she presses her bare chest to his.

Despite the fact that his eyes are already closed, his eyes roll back into his head. He's missed this. The sex, the love.

Everything.

They break apart after a long, drawn-out moment, and Blair murmurs against Chuck's lips, "The back of the limo…" Her voice trails off, light, teasing, and he grins widely. His teeth shine in the dim light.

It feels like a culmination of sorts, considering the first time they ever had sex was on these very seats. Blair's a romantic (he is too, although she's the only one who will ever know), and she can fully appreciate the magnitude of such a moment.

She snakes her legs around his, her feet curling to the straight lines of his clean-cut boxers. She pulls him to her, her arms twining and reaching for his neck as her lips move furiously against his. Their tongues dance together, unihibited, soft, and he growls into her mouth. They're both desperate for more heat, more contact.

Chuck's hand moves to Blair's waist, and she shivers. His fingers dart towards the lace encasing her most private of parts, and she moans in unconcealed anticipation. It has been so long since he last touched her, really touched her.

He raises his head, letting his eyes flutter open. "Blair," he murmurs. He's hesitating, just a little bit.

"Yes?" She doesn't open her eyes, instead reveling in the smooth circles his hand is tracing on her stomach. She feels safe and comfortable, and she just wants him, all of him. She wants to take him.

He smiles at her distracted state and murmurs, "Are you sure?" He's fully aware of the irony.

Blair gasps, but she refuses to open her eyes. She only nods.

Her breath hitches in anticipation as his hand hooks just beneath her waistband. His fingers sweep across the skin preambling this very next of connections, and she trembles. She's not sure she can handle foreplay right now. "Chuck," she breathes, and she hopes he understands that she really can't wait any longer.

He chuckles under his breath, but it's an obliging noise, and she sighs in relief. She dares to open her eyes, marveling at the deep caramel lurking in his gaze, and reaches up a hand to stroke his cheek thoughtfully. He closes his eyes, leaning into her palm instinctively, and she smiles.

Again.

"Take me," she whispers, her eyes locking on his.

He trembles in the heat of her gaze – smoldering, crackling, breaking – but nods, remembering that he is Chuck Bass and she is Blair Waldorf and they are meant to do this.

"I will," he whispers, and it's less an indication of the future, more a promise. She will be his, as he was always hers. He will make sure of it.

Without further conversation, without further prompting, really, he grasps the scratchy fabric in his hands and drags it down the length of her smooth legs. He takes care to focus on carefully removing her underwear instead of the sight of her naked before him. Of course, he finds his concentration faltering, but that's to be expected.

She glares at him, but it isn't hostile. There's eagerness in her eyes, and hunger. She wants him.

So she'll have him, he decides. He moves his hands to his boxers, realizing he's hopelessly overdressed, but her fingers on his waist stop him. He looks down at her, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, and shakes his head. He's not sure he has enough self-control for this. Any of it.

But he forces himself to watch as her nimble fingers drag his boxers down his hips. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of him, and there's something like fear in her eyes. He winces. He wonders just long it's been since she's had sex.

But more quickly than he can react to, the slight note of fear in those brown eyes of hers vanishes, replaced by a hot yearning and lust that sends a shiver through his body. He wants her. More than he thought he could ever want a woman.

She looks at him, a faint smile gracing her features, and he allows himself to relax and enjoy the moment. There is nothing to worry about. They have pledged their love, and Nate has given them his blessing. They are in a limo whose driver has been instructed to drive Manhattan's streets aimlessly unless told otherwise. And they have nowhere to be and no one to answer to. It is perfect.

And so he brings his lips down to hers, whispers a muffled "I love you" against the cool skin of her throat, and poises himself at her entrance.

This moment feels so very familiar, and she knows it's not because they've done this dozens of times. They are in a limo, just like they were the first time they came together (both literally and figuratively, she thinks devilishly). This time, though, they've made promises. And they'll keep them.

It seems as if he's waiting for her to give him permission. But he's never needed permission, so she doesn't nod. Instead, she arches her hips and waits.

A single heartbeat that feels unbearably long passes before he thrusts into her.

A haze of white erupts behind her eyelids, and her mouth opens in a silent cry as a tear rolls slowly down her cheek. She cannot form the words to describe what he feels like inside her, cannot even find the voice to tell him how much she loves him. She can only cling to him and hope he understands.

He _does_ understand, of course. He can't talk either.

So he only eases her into a steady, persistent rhythm, their hips undulating as one as the skyscrapers of Manhattan fade into oblivion. He covers her mouth with his, his tongue dancing with hers, his hands grasping her hips.

The movement feels tireless, inevitable, like the pounding of the waves on the shore or the tick of the clock in Times Square. This is supposed to happen, and as ChuckandBlair (one entity, always one person) reach and stretch, the sun begins to shine powerfully, shockingly.

Beautifully.

Chuck smiles and pulls away after a moment, still moving inside Blair, and murmurs, "Look at me, darling."

She lets her eyes flutter open, because the endearment slides off his tongue tenderly and gently and he sounds like he means it. She can't help but to oblige him. She looks up at him with a question in her eyes, and she watches that swirling caramel of his, the honeyed depths calm and fiery all at once.

He's an anomaly, she realizes. And she thinks it's wonderful.

She's awestruck by the expression on his face. (He looks happy and satisfied and _in love_). She's not sure she has the strength to hold back the tears welling in her eyes.

So she lets them leak and fall, and as the moisture rolls off her chin, it mingles with _his_ tears. And as he brings her to a point she didn't know existed until now, she lets out a soft, poignant sigh and whispers reverently, wondrously, "I love you."

That's the only truth she's ever known.

_fin_


End file.
